Quietly interrogating the stitches on this baseball moments before
it crushes my skull I realize that the meaning of this game is true love for
the gods of velocity and that my kinetic displecament will act as a testimony
to my revelations. I am the messiah of 2nd base, worship my
corpse.
Out of the page angular momentum, micro movements, line of sight,
ice cream cake, parties downtown, fishing for pussy and catching crabs. Collect
yourself awareness and let it burn, oil, slickin' my chains propel my frame
ever forward for hours and years waiting for shadows to swallow the only
foaming seat while graying wound white handles fade.
Third gear, 4th gear, 3rd gear,
fourth gear, and so close to crashing this time I’ve dive bombed for cement
walls and lost courage but someday the’ll call me back to fuck them senseless
with my flesh, bones, heart, stomach, brain case, eyes, ears, lynx, throat.
Such a pretty thought. Who doesn’t love to fuck sharp edges without having the
decency to ask for utensils?
Violated by white keys their vendetta is timeless, I am an A flat,
the scourge of their paradigm the enemy of this subjective
reality. This is their death, to live atop, to feel the hammer of
every string missing unsung notes as quim and angel melody
call me back and strike them. Strike again. Quietly interrogating the stitches on this moment I realize that I am my corpse.
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